


inhale, exhale

by dreamcatchme



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Foot Massage, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchme/pseuds/dreamcatchme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras reminds Grantaire that, no matter how complicated their world gets, what they have will always be as simple and easy as breathing. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inhale, exhale

Just Like Flying

 

The room is hot and the air is thick and heavy and it’s loud and everybody’s shouting and everything is suddenly happening and getting so fucking _serious_ that Grantaire can’t take it anymore.

 

He grabs his bottle and stands up, flinging his chair back from the table and earning a startled gasp from Courfeyrac and an eye roll from Combeferre in the process. No one else acknowledges his outburst, but as he turns Grantaire can feel the murderous glare of a certain golden-haired Adonis burning into his back, and somebody else nearby clears their throat awkwardly. Grantaire doesn’t care though. He turns on his heel and strides – with as much dignity as he can and in the straightest line that he can manage under the influence of the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream – over to the window sill, where he throws himself down, one foot tucked beneath him, the other leg swinging down outside and over the ledge, the toe of his boot just brushing the clapboard sign that reads _Café Musain_. His head is pounding and he wants nothing more than to ignore his friends and ignore the cause and ignore the revolution, _the fucking revolution_ , he wants to breathe, he wants to take his sketchpad and his pencils and capture the stormy but noiseless street that stretches out in front of him as he gazes down from the ledge in graphite and ink and cigarette ash. So he does. The city is silent, and Grantaire feels as though Paris is taking a deep breath – she knows what’s coming for her in the morning, and she’s making the most of her final moments of peace. He pulls his pad out of his satchel, idly lights a cigarette and steadies his breathing as he sketches out the outline of the buildings he sees, the tall, misshapen silhouettes, the windows that glint in the moonlight, the looming ghost of Notre Dame in the distance, but his art seems flat and dead, and he takes in a long, angry drag of smoke because it won’t work and it just isn’t right.

 

It pisses Grantaire off to know that the reason the piece is just a background, destitute and devoid of life or character or _anything_ , is that it’s missing its main focus – what it needs is a stroke of red, a flash of gold. He needs his muse and without it, without _him_ , his art is nothing, and that’s how it’s always been. Grantaire believes that the gods placed Enjolras on Earth for one purpose and that was to be admired, from afar and up close and especially in gilded frames on the walls of galleries, but of course that would never be enough for the man himself. The spirit of the city, their sprawling paradise, is embodied in Enjolras and everybody knows it, especially Grantaire – the first time he ever caught side of him had been during one of his speeches in the middle of the square, and he’s barely taken his eyes off him since. It was a stark winter afternoon, the beggars were freezing in their ditches as the rich and honourable hurried past clutching thick layers of furs around themselves in defence against the biting cold, and Grantaire had been asleep in a doorway, bottle in hand, his limbs anaesthetised and his mind numb after a long and lonely and frankly shit night. Then he heard a voice, casting around, speaking to anyone who would listen about God only knew what with such fervour, such passion that Grantaire might have believed he was cooing at a lover if he had been twice as drunk and half as imaginative. First he painted, and it was the greatest work that he’s ever produced. But then he listened. And to this day he hasn’t stopped. Until now. Grantaire knows from personal experience that Enjolras is devoted and a passionate, attentive lover, but sometimes he feels as though only one person is ever granted permission to experience that side of him, the side that isn’t stony or cold or methodical, and that person is France, the only woman who has or will ever have a place in his heart. At the end of the day, his one true love is his city, and heaven help the man that tries to stand between them.

 

What Grantaire feels for Enjolras, his leader, his brother, his soul mate for all intents and purposes, isn’t love – if there was a word that somehow combined every connotation and synonym of love, infatuation and obsession, rolled them into one then added the depth of a million more, then maybe that would come closer. He isn’t just in love with him, he’s fascinated by each and every little thing that he does. If he didn’t know just how fucking creepy it would be, Grantaire could easily capture Enjolras on canvas, in life size, with inks and oils and paints and without even looking at him – he could map out every loose golden curl on his head with ease, every fleck of colour in his eyes, every muscle contour, every tiny vein and every worry that creases his forehead on a daily basis. He closes his eyes and sucks in another lungful of smoke, then the next thing he knows he’s staring straight into that face and mentally retracting every single one of his thoughts from the last few seconds; no way could he capture those eyes, that jaw line, the curve of that mouth, the perfect pallor of that skin in a way that would do them any sort of justice. No, Enjolras is perfection, and he deserves nothing less, deserves more than Grantaire’s crude scribbles.

 

That doesn’t change the fact that Grantaire is still pissed at him, though, and he slowly, deliberately blows smoke at Enjolras, causing him to close his eyes and make that heartbreakingly adorable scrunched-up pouty face that sets butterflies loose in his stomach and sends a breath of boiling heat crawling across his skin. A second later the death glare is back and Enjolras looks about ready to push him through the window, but Grantaire knows him too well for his old shit to work anymore; his face softens and a little smile comes back onto his face, his eyes lit up like those of a kid in a toy store. He’s sat on the window ledge opposite Grantaire, his leg hanging down in the same way, and their positions are mirror images, like the wings of a butterfly.

 

“You’re angry,” Enjolras observes, his voice soft, and he languidly waves his hand out toward Grantaire. He understands his silent request straight away and passes him his cigarette, then has to stare pointedly out at the dark sky as Enjolras takes a long drag; the gesture always draws attention to Enjolras’ long, graceful fingers and the curve of his lips and drives Grantaire crazy, so it’s easier to just look away – it’s fine because he manages to pass it off giving Enjolras the cold shoulder anyway. He raises his eyebrows and turns with as much reluctance as he can muster back toward Enjolras as he hands the cigarette back over.

 

“Obviously.”

 

“With me?” Enjolras presses, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s in that dutiful, spellbound way that only Enjolras can manage.

 

Grantaire swallows. “Yes. Well... no. Yes.”

 

Enjolras moves closer, resting his elbow on his raised knee and his chin in his hand. “Please talk to me.”

 

“No,” he snaps, turning his head, then a second later he frowns and feels like crying for a reason he doesn’t understand. “I miss you, E,” Grantaire blurts out, not realising how much it would make him sound like a sappy girl, and he feels his cheeks burning, so he turns his face back to the open window. It’s just started to rain and he drops the butt of his cigarette down to the ground outside, listening as it lands in a puddle with a satisfying _plop_. He doesn’t even realise he’s still thinking aloud until Enjolras takes his hand, locking their fingers together and holding them on his knee. “I know how important this is for you, and I know...” He shrugs. “Your time’s finally come and I’m excited and thrilled and _happy_ , I fucking promise you, I’m so happy about it, but everything’s suddenly so real, isn’t it? This whole... revolution.” He says the word slowly, weighing it on his tongue. It feels unpleasant and terrifying, but most definitely not _wrong_. He laughs once at the realisation and a weight lifts from somewhere in his chest, and all the while Enjolras rubs circles into the side of his hand with his thumb. “We used to talk about it like it wasn’t real because it _wasn’t_ , it was just a dream we had when we were kids, but now it’s come along and everything’s real and everything’s so serious and complicated.” They don’t speak for a moment.

 

“Cold feet?” Enjolras asks, small smile back in place. The candles in the room have burned low and his features are thrown into relief, accentuating the angles and gentle curves and lines and flaws and _perfection_ that it his face.

 

“I don’t think so,” Grantaire says truthfully, “I just miss how simple things were. Before everything changed. I miss... you know, when it was just you and me.”

 

Enjolras drops his hand and crosses his legs. “Grantaire.” Grantaire looks up, biting his lip as Enjolras glares at him. “It’s still just you and me. Simple as that. This revolution could separate us and tear us apart and rip the whole fucking world in two –” Grantaire smiles as Enjolras cussing has always been an endless source of amusement for him. “- But in the end, it’ll always be you and me. Somehow. It isn’t complicated, not really.”

 

Grantaire sighs, and he knows Enjolras is right, Enjolras is always right, but there’s an icy uncomfortable feeling in his heart that still has yet to melt. His eyes search Enjolras’. “When did the world go mad?”

 

Enjolras holds his gaze and laughs. “I think it’s always been mad,” he says, crossing his legs and pulling Grantaire toward him, and he doesn’t put up any kind of fight; it’s been so long since they’ve had this kind of contact, just gentle and calm and just _them_ , and he goes along willingly. Grantaire relaxes against Enjolras’ lithe, warm body, turning his head slightly and breathing him in. “But life is so dreadfully boring when you let it pass by in all its madness without you.”

 

The next hour or so rushes past in a blur, although admittedly not an altogether unpleasant one. Enjolras continues to conduct the meeting of _les amis_ from his place on the window ledge with a cigarette from Grantaire’s pack in one hand and Grantaire’s head in his lap, totally uncaring or at least oblivious to the curious looks they're receiving from their friends; Grantaire stares out of the window, closing his eyes every so often and just letting Enjolras’ words spin gently around in his head while Enjolras plays absently with his hair with his free hand, curling and tangling it around those elegant fingers that Grantaire loves so much. At one point Grantaire is so at ease that he even has the audacity to fall asleep, but Enjolras is quick to tug just a tiny bit too hard on one of his dark curls ‘by accident’ and rouse him once more, before bending down and murmuring an apology against his ear. Grantaire rolls his eyes and tries to look pissed off but he’s comfortable and warm and content as a house cat, so the act doesn’t last long.

 

“I’ll walk you home,” Enjolras promises him at the end of the meeting – the café is already emptying at a rate of knots, their fellow students evidently keen to get home and out of the rain as quickly as possible and before the downpour gets any worse. Grantaire would protest out of politeness, fully aware that Enjolras’ own lodgings are right here above the café, but he’s decided recently that he is essentially a selfish creature and is eager to enjoy his Apollo’s company for a while longer. After all, who knows what tomorrow could have in store for them? The shitty weather means that the streets are empty and, as the pair of them duck out of the Musain’s main entrance and wave their goodnights to the bar staff, no one sees Grantaire slip his hand back into Enjolras’ where he feels like it belongs, at least for now.

 

Grantaire doesn’t mind the rain at all, likes how it feels as it presses down on them from the heavens, soaking them to the bone, filling his senses and roaring in his ears. Enjolras hums as they walk, at a relatively leisurely pace in light of the downpour, an upbeat yet somehow at the same time melancholy melody that Grantaire knows from God knows where and remembers hearing God knows how long ago. Hand in hand they weave in and out of puddles, their smiles widening, their laughter becoming louder, their steps less and less restrained as the tune hits its peak – they dance in the rain, Enjolras spinning Grantaire away from him by the hand before pulling him in close to his chest once more, his golden curls dripping, his cheeks aglow. Grantaire laughs because _fuck_ , its things like this that make his time with Enjolras worthwhile and, by the time they reach the building in which Grantaire rents a postage stamp-sized attic room, he isn’t keen to let him disappear back into the night. They bypass the heavy front door, shaking off as much water as they can without releasing each others’ hands as they head up the stairs. When they reach the door to Grantaire’s attic and Enjolras looks down the stairs again as if to make a move toward leaving, Grantaire’s heart skips a beat and suddenly he can’t bear to let go of Enjolras’ hand. So instead he smirks, stepping in front of him, barring his way. Enjolras huffs and glares at him, but every bit of seriousness on his angel face leaves as soon as Grantaire closes the gap between them, his hands snaking around Enjolras’ waist, fingers dipping tauntingly underneath the hem of his shirt and jacket.

 

“Come inside,” he breathes against Enjolras’ neck, nosing at his curls as he pins him gently to the door of his apartment. He feels Enjolras’ breath hitch in his throat.

 

“I shouldn’t...” he attempts, but his body betrays him – as he says the words his hand moves to the door knob behind his back and twists it around, letting them into Grantaire’s apartment, then grabbing a fistful of Grantaire’s pinstriped shirt and pulling him in after him. Grantaire smiles, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’ as he fumbles with the key in the lock on the inside of the door, twisting it silently and ensuring they won’t be disturbed, then when he turns he sees Enjolras has sat himself down on Grantaire’s solitary mattress and is shrugging out of his red jacket. The attic really is the smallest room Grantaire has ever seen – in its entirety it’s about as big as the large table upstairs at the Musain; there isn’t even room for a bed, so Grantaire’s home furnishings consist of a mattress on the wooden floor, an old shelf unit stacked with empty bottles and art supplies, a worn red chaise lounge in the same hue as Enjolras’ favourite jacket (which is now strewn haphazardly across the window ledge), then up three creaking stairs and through another un-lockable door on a makeshift wooden entresol is a tiny bathroom with a running hot water tap. His friends have added to the attic where they could, throwing in cushions and mugs and rolls of carpet whenever they could spare them, and now even when he’s alone the attic feels for the most part like home. But when Enjolras is here there’s no question about it – this is where he belongs. Not to mention the fact that through his huge wide window on fine, clear evenings the light of the sun itself seems to be in love with Enjolras almost as much as Grantaire is, and Enjolras has had to grit his teeth and sit still while Grantaire’s fussed around him with his sketchpad and brushes, capturing him in all of his transcendent glory. Grantaire knows his work is nowhere near as good when Enjolras isn’t the subject, and he wonders whether his keen eye for detail when it comes to his blonde-haired Apollo is down Enjolras’ sheer physical perfection or just the fact that whenever Grantaire looks at him he feels as if his heart is about to fucking burst and it just sharpens his senses. He’s pretty sure it’s a combination of both. Enjolras just enhances his perspective on life, he supposes.

 

But now the rain is coming down hard, and it dawns on Grantaire this is one of the few moments in his life when art is moved to the back of his mind and reality is at the forefront. He kicks off his shoes as Enjolras reclines on his bed, revealing a strip of the alabaster skin at his toned midriff as he stretches his arms above his head, flexing his long fingers and moaning quietly, contentedly. Grantaire smiles at him for a moment, appreciates his uncharacteristically relaxed posture and worry-free face, before he perches himself at the end of the mattress, his hand moving through his own hair and eventually coming to rest on Enjolras’ ankle. Enjolras’ eyes drift open and he glances up, fixing them on Grantaire, then after a moment amusement becomes clear on his face.

 

“I’ve done _so_ much walking around today, Grantaire,” he sighs, wriggling his toes visibly inside his boots. “I don’t think my feet have ever hurt me this much.” Grantaire smirks, fighting back a laugh, and leans down, rolling up the rain-soaked hems of Enjolras’ trousers and pressing a kiss to his bare calf. Enjolras shudders, but he’s always been one for dramatics and so he continues with his game. “Ugh, they’re so sore. Honestly, I don’t think I can move them...”

 

“That must be terrible for you,” says Grantaire, giving in and moving to the end of the mattress where he slowly and deliberately sets to work pulling off Enjolras’ boots, then his water-saturated socks. When his feet are bare, Grantaire crosses his legs, taking Enjolras’ left foot up into his lap and cradling it in his hands. “I’ve never given anyone a foot massage, so this might be shit,” he warns, slowly pressing his thumbs into Enjolras’ heel, rubbing firm circles into the skin and feeling his muscles loosen. He works for a minute or so then moves to the arch of his foot, kneading it gently with the curves of his knuckles, rolling them up and down before repeating the thumb-circling motion on Enjolras’ toes, each in turn, chuckling as they fidget at Grantaire’s light touches. “Ticklish?” he asks, and Enjolras laughs. He repeats the entire process then switches to Enjolras’ right foot, and this time Enjolras hums in pleasure as Grantaire works, slumping down in that impossibly graceful way that Enjolras somehow manages to do fucking _everything_ and pulling a hand through his blonde curls.

 

“Mmmmmgrantaaaire.” Enjolras’ sentiments come out in a single careless breath, and the huskiness in his voice and the tone of his words go straight to Grantaire’s cock. He ghosts his hands up to Enjolras’ ankle, curling his fingers around it and forming a manacle, then he reaches his head down and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the skin there, then another an inch or so down. Enjolras groans, another shudder moving tangibly through him, then sits up, leaning back on his hands and gazing down at Grantaire, a smile playing around his lips, his eyes dark with anticipation. As Grantaire continues to leave his torturous trail of kisses down the other man’s leg, Enjolras’ hand comes to rest at the back of his neck, inadvertently causing Grantaire to look up and meet his eyes.

 

“Kiss me,” breathes Enjolras, leaning down, eyes on Grantaire’s lips.

 

“That’s what I’m doing,” Grantaire retorts, enjoying himself now, inching closer so that their noses touch.

 

“Not like that,” says Enjolras, then without any other warning he surges forward, grabbing Grantaire’s collar and pulling him closer then claiming Grantaire’s lips with his own and giving him a deep, slow, sweet kiss. It’s lazy and undemanding and Grantaire can’t help but smile, loving how easy this is and always is and always will be, breathing in the familiar scent that clings to Enjolras and tasting his cigarette from earlier on his tongue as his lips part and Enjolras licks into his mouth. He hums in satisfaction as Grantaire’s teeth scrape his bottom lip, drawing blood to the surface, then Grantaire feels Enjolras’ hand tangle in his hair as the room gets hotter and the presence of so many layers of clothing gets progressively more annoying. They pause and surface briefly for air, Enjolras’ breath coming quick and ragged against Grantaire’s waiting lips before they kiss again, hands searching, fingers fumbling with shirt buttons. Grantaire rolls over, pulling Enjolras with him as he goes, and _fuck_ , he needs to feel more of him or he’s going to explode.

 

Enjolras makes that humming noise Grantaire loves so much again as they grind against each other, lips crashing together once more as Grantaire makes light work of Enjolras’ final few buttons and pulls his shirt gently over his head, fingers tracing the flat planes of his stomach, moving round to the muscled contours of his back. Enjolras rolls his hips upward in response, needing, demanding friction of some sort, and Grantaire complies, moving his hands down to Enjolras’ waist and trailing his fingers taunting across Enjolras’ cock, already half-hard in his trousers. Enjolras growls.

 

“Don’t tease,” he commands breathlessly, a hint of the fearless campaign leader in his voice, but Grantaire doesn’t listen – if he’s allowed to take control of Enjolras in one solitary arena of their lives, torment him, force him to come apart in front of him, its right _here_ , and he isn’t going to waste the opportunity. He rubs torturously slowly, gently then with more pressure, then after a minute or so he relents a little and moves his hand inside, underneath the godforsaken material that is covering _too fucking much_ of Enjolras, and takes him in his hand. Enjolras gasps and bites at Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire knows exactly what his game is – Enjolras is domineering and jealous at the best of times, and will never pass up the chance to mark Grantaire, to claim him in any way he can. Tomorrow he’ll smirk when their friends at the Musain ask Grantaire where the bruises at his throat mysteriously materialised from, laugh at Grantaire’s blush and hurried, ill thought-out explanation before pulling him into a corner, breathing sweet nothings in his ear and dragging him into the bathroom for a repeat performance. Grantaire would love to stomp his foot and play coy and refuse, but not nearly as much as he fucking _adores_ seeing Enjolras reduced to a shuddering, quivering, cursing _mess_ beneath his hands, his tongue, his lips, roughly, _mercilessly_ against the cubicle door. This is how it always is with them – a fight for dominance, a struggle for power, but really, at the end of the day, their hearts take over their heads and neither man minds who wins.

 

Enjolras stretches back and fucking _keens_ like an animal when Grantaire removes the remainder of his clothing and closes his mouth over his cock. He feels Enjolras tangle his fingers in his hair as he begins to move, working and building up a rhythm which Enjolras is quick to respond to, and Grantaire digs his fingernails into Enjolras’ hips in an attempt to keep him still. Enjolras’ head lolls back against the pillows, but when Grantaire meets his eyes he doesn’t seem able to look away – entranced, Enjolras moans and swears, hips rolling, muscles undulating visibly, sweat beading at the nape of his neck as Grantaire drives him to the edge of ecstasy with his tongue.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Grantaire,” he breathes, somehow pronouncing Grantaire’s name with five separate syllables, the sounds dripping off his tongue like a prayer, then he sits up, pulling away from Grantaire’s reach. Grantaire watches, his own eyes clouding with lust, as Enjolras leans back against the window and takes himself in his hand, stroking up and down his cock slowly, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s. “Come here,” he murmurs, and Grantaire’s already there by the time the words leave Enjolras’ pretty, perfect mouth – Enjolras pulls him over his body and in seconds what’s left of his clothing is strewn across the floor. Their bare skin is pressed together, soft, slick with sweat and so hot Grantaire can’t tell where his own body ends and where Enjolras’ begins. Enjolras kisses his neck breathlessly, deeply, and their hands meet between them, fingers twisting together with desperation as Enjolras rolls his hips upward. Grantaire follows suit, his head spinning, his cock seeking blissful friction against Enjolras’, and within minutes he’s cussing and groaning and biting into Enjolras’ shoulder to stop himself from fucking screaming. They're usually loud when they're together, and Grantaire always finds having to be quiet just as exciting as the act itself, especially in public or when their friends are in the room next door. But right now they don’t care. They pick up the pace, the speed of their movements increasing, and the last thing Grantaire knows before he sees white and stars behind his eyelids is the sound of Enjolras moaning against his neck, at his throat, against his ear. They come together, swallowing each others’ screams with a soul-burning kiss, and then they’re both still, Grantaire’s arms around Enjolras as his blonde-haired Apollo shudders and sobs and fights to regain his breathing.

 

“Shit,” he murmurs, and Grantaire laughs.

 

An hour or so later, when the rain has finally stopped and the blood of the sun is beginning to light the sky once more, Grantaire and Enjolras are lying a hair’s breadth apart – a necessary measure for two full-grown men sharing a single mattress that isn’t big enough for just Grantaire at the best of times – Enjolras’ arms rest around Grantaire’s waist, his nose pressed into the crook of his neck, and he breathes slowly, steadily. Grantaire’s hand rests in Enjolras’ golden curls. As they lie there, suddenly Enjolras inhales deeply, then sighs.

 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks, and the answer could be weird or creepy or shocking or horrifying and he knows he wouldn’t mind.

 

“Committing this to my memory,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire can tell he’s thought this through. “I love how you smell.”

 

“I smell like _you_ ,” Grantaire reminds him, smiling like a fucking girl as he acknowledges this fact.

 

“Mmm.”

 

A few moments pass in which Enjolras continues to breath him in, his steady inhalations and exhalations tickling Grantaire’s neck. Then he pulls away, moving back, hands never leaving Grantaire’s waist as he puts several inches between them and holds his gaze. Grantaire feels Enjolras foot wrap around his leg, then Enjolras hums contentedly in his throat.

 

“What?” Grantaire asks, curious about Enjolras’ sudden amusement.

 

“Your feet are warm.”

 

It takes a few moments for the reference to sink in, then Grantaire rolls his eyes and rests his hand on Enjolras’ cheek, still pink-streaked and warm from earlier. “ _I_ could have told you that.” He sighs. “Easy as breathing, right?”

 

“Right,” Enjolras murmurs, moving his body flush against Grantaire’s once more and leaning his head forward on the pillow so that the tips of their noses touch. “Easy as breathing.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this pairing, so I'd love to know what you think!


End file.
